


For Better, for Worse

by itallends



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Typical Themes, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, POV Jord, POV Outsider, some violence, unfortunately the regent exists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-02 18:34:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20816306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itallends/pseuds/itallends
Summary: Laurent arches an eyebrow. “Iammarried, Jord.”Jord blinks at him slowly. “…To your job?”“To aman.”Jord’s eyes fall on Laurent’s bare left hand. “Right,” he says.Or: five times Laurent says he's married, and the one time everyone finally believes him.





	For Better, for Worse

**i.**

_Barking Mad _is a tradition. Every time someone on the squad closes a major case, everyone – including the constable interns – are invited to celebrate at the dingy pub down the road. It’s generally a good way to wind down, even for those who haven’t spent their time on a remarkably gruelling case.

Tonight, they’re celebrating Orlant and Rochert, who have managed to solve the murder of Pierre Absil, an elite businessman involved in some shady stuff on the side. In particular, they’re celebrating Rochert; he’s a rookie, and has only been on the squad for six months, maybe seven. Absil’s case had been his first major one, and according to Orlant, he was instrumental in finding the murder weapon.

It’s a warm Thursday night; it’s that time of year where the weather is never consistent. Just last night, it had been raining. Jord had fallen asleep almost instantly to the sound of the rain pattering against his windows. Now, the heat of the night is persistent; it’s seeped into the pub, making sweat gather along his temples and the back of his neck.

Everyone from the department has gathered haphazardly around the pub. _Barking Mad _is small, dark and often reeks of piss, but the onion rings are amazing, and the beer is dirt cheap, so it’s a favourite amongst everyone. Plus, it’s tradition. According to Captain Herode, who is standing by the entrance talking to Sergeant Radel, his captain’s captain started the whole thing.

Jord is nestled in the back, on a rickety wooden table, with the men of the hour, Orlant and Rochert, as well as Lazar, Huet and Enguerren. Rochert hasn’t stopped grinning for a while. His mouth is coated with oil from the rings, and his cheeks are steadily darkening. As per tradition, he and Orlant aren’t paying for their own drinks, something Orlant takes advantage of every time. Tonight is no exception; Orlant is on his fourth beer and has no plans of slowing down.

“We should do a toast,” Orlant says, eyes glassy. He raises his bottle, and everyone on the table follows suit. Rochert looks incredibly amused. “I, personally, would like to thank Ms Abigail Absil for murdering her shithole of a husband, because otherwise, we wouldn’t be here tonight.”

“Here, here!” Huet cheers.

“Is it wrong to say you love a murderer? Because that’s kind of where I am right now,” Orlant says, and Huet bursts out laughing.

Amidst his own laughter, Jord says, “To Rochert, too, for actually solving the case.”

“Hey!” says Orlant, but it’s lost in the cacophony of laughter and clinking of bottles as they all take more than generous sips.

“Thanks, you guys,” Rochert says, flushed and a little shy from all the attention. “I’m just glad I was considered for the case at all.”

Lazar gives him a sleazy wink. “You won’t be saying that in a few weeks when boss man starts piling shit on you.” This is met with a lot of egregious nodding, and Rochert looks suitably pained for a moment.

There’s another, sudden burst of warm air as the pub door is pried open. Jord’s eyes fall on Laurent, who, despite the weather, has a scarf wrapped around his neck.

Laurent is – with the exception of the interns – the youngest member of staff. He’s not a part of the squad; he works directly under the Captain, who to everyone’s surprise, seems to not only respect Laurent, but actually like him. Laurent sits on the fourth floor and has his own office, much to the consternation of everyone else. The detectives all sit on the third floor, in tiny cubicles with dim lighting and terrible swivel chairs that fall apart within months.

Laurent is also, at least to Jord, the most beautiful man on the planet. There’s just something so ethereal about him; he’s all slender limbs, golden hair, cobalt blue eyes and his mouth is sweet and pink. Jord especially loves his lashes; they’re long and slightly curled. Whenever Laurent looks down, they cast shadows over the pink in his cheeks. Even after three years, it still does something to Jord.

It’s just a shame that Laurent is the most unpleasant man he’s ever met. Orlant calls him a stone cold bitch – a SCB for short – and honestly, he’s right. Laurent, for all his coquettish good looks, is vicious, bordering on cruel at times.

When he’d first arrived at the office, three years ago, there’d been notable interest among the men. One by one, they had tried to chat up Laurent, and everyone had been cut to the bone with savage, brutal remarks.

Jord had also tried. It’s embarrassing to think of it now, but he remembers himself, eager and hopeful, hovering by Laurent’s desk, offering to show him around the precinct or the neighbourhood until Laurent had set down his paperwork, fixed deadly eyes on him and had said, “If the next thing out of your mouth isn’t about work, then kindly fuck off.”

Jord had, and for a while, he’d refused to go up to the fourth floor. In fact, for a long time, everyone had ignored Laurent – whether out of fear or embarrassment, sometimes both – until he would bend over to pick up something and then suddenly everyone would be scrambling to try and woo him again.

Despite his callousness, Laurent _has _come a long way in the last year and a half. He’s still guarded and isn’t as forthcoming as the other people in the office or precinct, but he’s not so frigid. Just last week, he had invited Jord on a coffee run. Their conversation to and from the café had been brief, but affable. Laurent had even asked him about his sister’s birthday party and had apologised for missing it. And even though Lazar is one of the few men in the precinct still invested in sleeping with him, Laurent seems to genuinely enjoy his company.

Now, Laurent weaves through the pub with ease. He nods amicably at everyone he walks past, and even waves at Jord and the other guys on the table when their eyes meet. Three years ago, Laurent would have entered _Barking Mad _with his nose high in the air, ignored everyone except Herode, and then sat himself in the corner, alone. Tonight, it seems like Laurent will be sitting with Vannes and Kashel. He’s smiling by the time he pulls up a chair.

It’s then that Jord notices Rochert. His jaw is slack, and his eyes are glassy like Orlant’s but for a completely different reason. Longing dances across his features and he looks desperate. Jord empathises. Rochert is still new. He’s only seen Laurent a handful of times. One of those times, they’d been in a meeting, and Laurent had walked in just before it had started. Rochert had choked on his coffee, before promptly spilling it all over his paperwork. And Rochert hasn’t witnessed Laurent’s mercilessness, so despite everyone’s warnings, he’s still enamoured.

Rochert, tipsy and loose, doesn’t bother to hide the fact that he’s openly staring at Laurent now. Jord considers telling him to back off, but then decides against it; it’s best to learn firsthand why hitting on Laurent is bad idea.

When Laurent gets up to, presumably, get a drink, Rochert turns to them, almost pleading. “Should I go talk to him?”

“Sure,” Orlant snorts, slapping his back. “Tell him all about how your genius led to the most epic solve.”

“Don’t do that,” says Jord, and Rochert swivels to him. “Laurent doesn’t like show-offs.”

“True,” says Enguerren. “When I told him about the Gonwald heist, he literally went ‘So?’. I fucking died on the spot.”

Huet winces sympathetically and Jord laughs.

Rochert seems to be taking their advice very seriously. Jord is sure that if there was a notepad and pen nearby, he’d be writing everything down.

As it is, none of them have any tips on how to get Laurent because they’ve all failed – often miserably – in that department. Even Orlant, who with his squashed face, is the smoothest talker in history, has fallen short, multiple times.

Laurent is still by the bar. Lazar wisely advises Rochert that this will be the only time of the night Laurent will be alone, so if he wants to make a move, he’d better do it now.

Squaring his shoulders and nodding to himself, Rochert stands up. His face is now determined, the lines around his mouth and eyes set tight.

As he walks towards the bar, Huet says, “I feel kinda bad. It’s almost like we sent him off to the guillotine.”

Lazar shrugs, shovelling more rings into his mouth. He chews noisily. “Kid’s gotta learn somehow. Think of it as an initiation ritual; if you wanna be a part of the squad, you gotta be rejected by Laurent.”

That makes Enguerren laugh. Jord, like Huet, feels bad.

They all watch as Rochert touches Laurent’s elbow to get his attention. There’s a collective wince at the table.

“Oof,” Lazar says, grimacing, “Bad move, bud.”

It’s a _terrible _move; Laurent hates being touched. Even in the elevator, when it’s crowded, he goes stiff, elbows pressed to his side as close as possible to avoid touching anyone else.

Predictably, Laurent stiffens at the touch, jerking his elbow away. His eyes narrow.

“Uh oh,” says Orlant under his breath.

Rochert leans closer to Laurent to hear what he’s saying. _Strike two_, thinks Jord.

The conversation hardly lasts three minutes. Laurent dismisses Rochert with a tight shake of his head.

They all pretend like they weren’t watching when Rochert makes his way back to them, head hung and face red.

When he reaches the table again, Rochert’s glare is accusatory. “You guys didn’t tell me he was _married. _I looked like such an idiot.”

“Huh?” says Huet. “Who’s married?”

Rochert looks unimpressed as he sits back down. “_Laurent_, obviously.”

“He isn’t married,” Jord says in disbelief. “…Right?” He looks around the table and is met with quizzical, blank stares.

“As if!” Orlant protests loudly. “Laurent’s probably never even been on a date his entire life.”

“What did he say exactly?” Lazar asks.

All eyes fall on Rochert again. He fidgets a little in his seat. “Well, I asked him if I could get him a drink and whether we could sit together in the corner and all he said was, ‘no thanks, I’m married’.”

Lazar scoffs. “Well in that case, it _must _be true.” He rolls his eyes. “He only said that to get you off his back, man.”

Jord frowns. “But why say it at all? Why didn’t he just say no, like he usually does?”

“Or insult you and your entire family?” Enguerren says. “That’s his usual method.”

“He _did _get a letter of warning last month about his verbal abuse.” Huet is contemplative. “Maybe he’s being precautious.”

“Okay, but he insulted Guion, who one hundred percent deserved it,” Enguerren says, and everyone agrees.

“Yeah, he’s a bastard.” Lazar says with a slow shake of his head.

Rochert still looks distinctly put out, so Jord claps his back in commiseration. “Hey, don’t feel too bad. We’ve all been there. At least he didn’t tell you he’d rather saw off his fingers one by one than ever touch you.”

Rochert gapes at him, wide eyed. “He said that to you?”

Jord snorts. “Not _me_.”

Lazar raises a hand. “Me.”

Everyone laughs and Rochert perks up considerably.

The rest of the night is spent as it usually is in _Barking Mad_; drinking too much alcohol on a weeknight and eating a copious amount of greasy fries.

Jord has to leave earlier than the other guys; his shift begins at six tomorrow, which he is not looking forward to. On his way out, he bumps into Laurent who is still fiddling with his scarf.

“Hey,” Jord says, and Laurent gives him a polite smile.

“Hey. Heading home?”

Jord nods, “Yeah, Captain’s put me on the early shift.”

“Good luck,” says Laurent. “I was on that shift last week and it’s brutal.”

This late at night, it’s cooler outside than it was a few hours ago. Jord shivers a little. Suddenly, he’s envious of Laurent’s scarf.

The thought comes to him then. The alcohol in his system tells him it’s a great idea, so Jord says, “You know you didn’t have to tell Rochert you’re married just to reject him. He might tell everyone in the office – and that’d just be awkward.”

Laurent arches an eyebrow. Jord swears he looks amused. “I _am _married, Jord.”

Jord blinks at him slowly. “…To your job?”

Laurent’s lips twitch. Oh, he’s definitely amused. “To a _man_.”

Jord’s eyes fall on Laurent’s bare left hand. “Right,” he says.

Laurent doesn’t bother to hide his eye roll. Very pointedly, he says, “Goodnight, Jord. See you tomorrow.”

Jord feels like he just missed something important. Still, he stands on the footpath, watching Laurent leave. After all, the view is rather lovely.

**ii.**

“Sir –” Jord enters Herode’s office without knocking. It’s just past four in the afternoon, and he’s out of breath from running up the stairs; the elevator had been taking too long. Laurent is seated across Herode’s desk, a file open on his lap as Herode listens to him intently. They both look up when Jord hovers in the doorway.

“Sorry,” Jord says. His face is hot. He should definitely be going to the gym more. “I just had a quick question.”

“Go on,” Herode says, flapping a hand.

“Should I leave?” Laurent asks, casting a quick glance at Jord, who shakes his head.

“It’s okay. This is just about the Myer’s case, sir. The two witnesses from the crime scene just got here. The only problem is, they don’t speak a word of Veretian and the translator is on annual leave until Tuesday.”

Herode hums thoughtfully. “Do you believe we can afford to wait until then, detective?”

“No, sir.” Jord says, “That’s why I wanted to ask you what I should do.”

“What language do they speak?” Herode asks. “Have you asked around? Perhaps someone in the precinct speaks it.”

“They speak Akielon, sir. I’ve already asked around, and no one seems to know it. It’s not very common around here –”

“I speak it,” says Laurent.

Jord eyes him sceptically. “_You _know Akielon?”

Laurent gives him an unimpressed glare. Before he can respond, with a presumably scathing retort, Herode says, “Well, that’s sorted then, detective. Laurent, you have my permission to act as translator for this case. We’ll finish up here tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.” Laurent dips his head respectfully. “Thank you.”

Jord and Laurent make their way downstairs in silence. Jord keeps casting Laurent furtive glances. He wonders, briefly, if Laurent is lying about speaking Akielon to get out of doing reports with Herode, but then dismisses the thought. Laurent isn’t the type to half ass any work; there’s a reason why he’s been promoted at such a young age, and why he’s Herode’s favourite, despite the man’s insistence that he’s not.

Still, speaking Akielon in Arles is an uncommon practice. There are a few select schools which teach it – and even then, it’s only ever an elective subject. Now that Jord thinks about it, he can imagine Laurent in a preppy private school reciting Akielon phrases in a bored manner, unaware of his own privilege.

The interrogation is with an elderly couple who were present when Myer was shot. Laurent, to Jord’s surprise, is nothing but kind to them. When he speaks Akielon to them, it’s with an obvious accent, but Mr and Mrs Anagnos don’t seem to mind; their eyes light up in relief at the notion of speaking their mother tongue.

Jord spends the next hour or so furiously scribbling notes as Laurent translates his questions. His tone is always polite, and the smile on his face is inviting. He nods at the right places, eyes sympathetic.

When Mr and Mrs Anagnos leave, Jord throws Laurent a grin. “Thanks, dude. You did a great job, you know. We should have you interrogate all the witnesses.”

Laurent gives him a look, like he’s unsure whether Jord is joking or not. Finally, he says, “I spoke to a lot of police when I was younger. The ones that were nice to me were easiest to talk to. I figured the same thing would work here.”

_Oh_, thinks Jord. It’s an open secret around the office and precinct that Laurent lost his family in a car crash when he was young. Every year, Laurent takes a day off on March sixteenth. Herode had finally spilled the reason why last year when Lazar had badgered him for six hours straight.

There’s a strained silence. To undermine the sudden awkwardness in the room, Jord asks, “So, how did you learn Akielon anyway?”

It’s effective; Laurent’s features, which for a moment seemed forlorn, now contort into one of dryness. “Is it a crime now to be bilingual? It’s been a while since I read up on all of Arles’ laws, so forgive me for missing this one.”

Despite himself, Jord feels a smile tug on his lips. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

Laurent gives him another of those looks. It’s almost like he’s unused to the idea of joking around. For some reason, that almost makes Jord feel sad.

He thinks Laurent isn’t going to answer, just leave him hanging, but then Laurent sighs and says, “My husband is from Akielos. He’s been teaching me.”

“Oh…” Of all the responses, Jord isn’t expecting this one. It’s been almost a month since that night in the pub, where Laurent told both Jord and Rochert that he was married. Jord had completely written it off, especially because Laurent never mentioned it again. Besides, he doesn’t even wear a ring. It’s not hard to forget about his mysterious, non-existent marital status.

Another heavier kind of silence falls upon them.

Laurent clearly doesn’t like whatever is scrawled upon Jord’s face (probably a whole lot of incredulity). With an animosity that instantly chills the room, Laurent snaps, “Forget it,” and walks out the room without a second glance back.

Now Jord really does feel sad for him. Why didn’t Laurent just say Duolingo like a normal person?

**iii.**

The next time Laurent mentions he’s married, it’s at the Captain’s house.

Every summer, the Captain hosts a barbeque pool party at his sprawling inner city mansion. It’s actually a revered event amongst the precinct; practically everyone looks forward to it. Herode always sources the best meats, has premium liquor and his pool is a monstrous size, with an inbuilt hot tub.

Jord is by the punch, as is Laurent, who has been cornered by Herode’s wife.

Avoiding Mrs Sadoul is an unspoken rule amongst the precinct; once she starts talking, she often doesn’t stop, and she’s a notorious matchmaker. Only, she’s terrible at it.

Last year, at the annual Christmas party, she had tried to set Jord up with her niece, despite Jord telling her multiple times that he was gay.

Now, Jord can’t help listening in to Mrs Sadoul cajole Laurent to date her “very handsome godson”.

Laurent’s face is pained. “Thank you.” His tone is polite, but firm. “But I am actually married, so –”

“Oh no, dear!” Mrs Sadoul’s eyes widen. “That’s such a shame. I can guarantee you now that Jeurre is much more handsome than your husband. You’ve missed out, you know.”

“…Yes,” says Laurent, and Jord hides his laughter into his glass.

When she leaves, Jord hands him a glass of punch. “You look like you need it,” he says, when Laurent turns to him in surprise.

“Thank you,” Laurent says, his smile wan. “She ambushed me as soon as I walked through the door.”

Jord snorts. “Been there, done that.” He tilts his head towards the alfresco, where most of the squad has gathered. “Come sit with us.”

Laurent’s shock transforms into hesitance. Jord gets it. He’s never actively sought out Laurent at Herode’s party over the last three years he’s attended. Laurent usually arrives later than everyone and leaves first. He also primarily hangs out with Halvik, the stern communications manager, whose emails are always borderline aggressive. But right now, he feels like they’ve bonded through a traumatic experience. Besides, if he leaves Laurent alone, Mrs Sadoul might swoop in again, and Jord can’t have that on his conscious.

“You can say no,” Jord says after a moment.

But Laurent surprises him by saying: “Yes.”, if a little meekly.

At first, Laurent doesn’t contribute to the conversation at all. He just sits quietly, listening, drinking more punch, then beer; Vannes keeps shoving drinks into his hands. Jord watches Laurent get looser; colour stains his cheeks, the column of his neck, and his eyes are so bright, they seem bluer than usual. Laurent even laughs when Orlant recounts how Buttercup, one of the squad’s horses, shit on his shoe on his very first day as a junior police officer.

Kashel starts talking about her new girlfriend; it seems almost inevitable when the conversation turns to dating in general, and then marriage.

It’s then that Orlant addresses Laurent. “Oi, Revere! Why didn’t you bring that husband of yours along today? He doesn’t like pool parties?”

Jord mentally groans. He’d told the guys about what Laurent had said after the interrogation, but that had been weeks ago. He’d honestly thought they’d forgotten.

There’s been a lot of discussion about Laurent’s marriage amongst everyone over the last few weeks. So far, the only people who completely believe Laurent are Vannes, Paschal, the infirmary medic, and Alexon. Orlant, Huet and Lazar believe it’s definitely a lie. Jord is on the fence about it. He just can’t see Laurent lying about something that could easily be exposed. However, Laurent _is_ unquestionably dodgy about answering anything related to his mysterious husband.

Laurent says, “He’s in Akielos right now.”

“Aww, that’s a shame,” says Orlant. “Why’s he over there when you’re here?”

“He had some family business to sort out.”

Orlant leans back in his chair, smirk easy on his face, eyebrows raised slightly. It’s his interrogation face. Jord feels like he’s about to witness a car crash and he’s powerless to stop it.

“What kind of family business?”

“I’m…not really sure.”

“Does your husband have a name?”

“Of course.”

“Well?”

“It’s, uh, Damen.”

“Does _uh, Damen _have a surname? Or did he take yours?”

“No, he didn’t. And I’m not going to tell you his full name.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll look him up online.”

By now, everyone seems eager to jump into this impromptu twenty questions game. Jord suspects the only reason Laurent is allowing it is because he’s drunk – or at least getting there. He keeps squirming in his seat, eyes slightly unfocused. He also keeps pausing in between his answers, like it’s taking him immense brain power to think of suitable responses.

“When did you get married?”

“November.”

“Where did you get married?”

“In Ios.”

“How did you two meet?”

Laurent flushes darker. “I – at the museum. He came up to me and we started talking.”

This doesn’t ring plausible to Jord. Laurent hates talking to strangers.

It’s clear everyone else is thinking the same.

“Why don’t you wear a ring?”

Laurent’s face pinches. “That’s…” He looks away, shoulders hunched. He doesn’t offer anymore.

Vannes asks, “What does he do?”

At this, Laurent flushes further. His face is blotchy and red; how he manages to still look beautiful is beyond Jord. He downright seems shifty as he deliberates an answer.

“I – well. He’s, um. Er.” Laurent pushes a strand of hair behind his ear. “Uh.”

Orlant raises an eyebrow. “He must do something.”

Laurent is uncomfortable with all the attention that’s on him, now. Jord almost pipes up that they should stop; it’s evident by now that Laurent _is _lying – the least they can do is spare him some embarrassment.

After a long pause, Laurent says, “He, um, holds meetings? Rides horses. Er, sword fighting. I think. And uh – he…goes to charity events?”

“You don’t seem so sure,” Lazar says. His tone is dry.

Huet leans forward in his seat. “I’m sorry – did you say _sword fighting_?”

Laurent practically deflates into his seat. Mumbling into his cup, he says, “I need to use the bathroom.” He stands up quickly, stumbling a little, and makes his escape back into the house.

The squad sits in contemplative silence following his departure.

Vannes is the first to speak. She looks disappointed. “Damn. I honestly thought he was telling the truth until the last question.”

“Why would you even believe him in the first place?” Orlant scoffs. “You’d have to be insane to marry that SCB.”

Vannes pinches his thigh. “Don’t be an ass. He can be nice when he wants to be.”

Jord thinks of Laurent’s interactions with the couple in the interrogation room and privately agrees.

“It’s kind of pathetic to lie about being married, though,” says Huet. “I wouldn’t have expected him of all people to do that.”

“He probably wanted to make himself seem more interesting,” says Lazar.

Jord takes a long, generous sip of punch. “Well, at least we’ve managed to solve the case.”

The food is served, then, and Jord gets up to grab more drinks. Through the open window, he notices Laurent on the couch, alone, head in his hands.

Jord makes his way inside the living room to where Laurent is sitting.

“Everything okay?”

Laurent lifts his head slowly, bleary eyed. He’s slurring a little as he says, “You guys got me drunk. I hate being drunk.”

Jord can’t quite disguise his snort in time. “No one forced you to drink, Laurent.”

Laurent closes his eyes. His features twist into something jagged, almost sad. “Stop. Talking.”

“Alright, alright. Do you want me to call you an Uber?”

Laurent nods, and they sit in silence as they wait for the car to pull up.

As he guides Laurent outside with a firm hand on his elbow, Jord can’t help his quip, “Say hi to your husband for me.”

Laurent sighs. “He’s in Akielos. I’m just going home alone. Like always.”

“You’re not alone,” says Jord. “You’re married, remember?” Laurent is too inebriated to notice his amused smile.

Instead, Laurent casts his eyes to the sky. His face is unreadable. “Yes. You would think so.”

Jord honestly doesn’t have time for all this cryptic nonsense. He makes sure Laurent is in the car safely, before heading back inside. There’s a steak with his name on it.

**iv.**

“I’m worried about him,” Jord says in an undertone. The precinct is quieter than usual; only a handful of detectives work the weekend shift, this early in the morning. Jord assumes upstairs, in the office, it’s even quieter.

Huet yawns into his coffee mug. There are dark circles under his eyes and he keeps looking at the clock every few minutes.

“Who?”

“Laurent,” says Jord. He taps his fingers against the surface of his desk, agitated. “He’s actually wearing a wedding ring now.”

Huet nods thoughtfully. “I noticed it too, yesterday.” He shrugs, looking back at the open file on his desk. “Kudos to him, man – he’s very committed to this prank, huh?”

“That’s the thing,” Jord says. “Since when does Laurent pull pranks? Telling people you’re married as a joke is one thing, but actually going out and buying a fake ring is just sad.”

The timing of the ring’s appearance is also suspicious: just days after the party, Laurent had shown up to the office wearing the simple gold band around his ring finger. When Jord had spotted it, he’d asked if it was new, and Laurent had said no, he’d had it for a while.

Plus, Laurent doesn’t even seem to like wearing it. He constantly rubs his fingers over it, like he’s unused its weight. He also keeps taking it off, then putting it back on a few minutes later. During one of their briefings, Laurent had taken off his ring thirteen times – and yes, Jord had counted.

“Well…maybe he is telling the truth, then?” Huet offers. “Just because we haven’t seen his husband doesn’t mean he doesn’t exist.”

“We didn’t even _know _he existed until a couple of weeks ago! And Laurent couldn’t even give us a straight answer when we asked about him.”

Huet sighs. “I don’t know, man. I guess if it doesn’t affect his work, there’s nothing we can really do.”

“This doesn’t bother you at all?” Jord presses. “He’s straight up faking a marriage! Do you think he’s only doing this because everyone here thinks he’s a stone cold bitch? Is this supposed to make him seem more likeable? Because it really doesn’t – everyone’s probably going to end up thinking his husband’s a masochist, having to put up with someone like Laurent for –”

Someone clears their throat behind him.

Jord freezes. Huet’s eyes widen to a comical degree.

Jord turns slowly, like a man preparing to meet the demon hiding in his closet.

Laurent’s face is completely devoid of any emotion, but his eyes are like icicles, cold and hard. It reminds Jord of the way he looked when he first entered the office, untouchable and guarded by impenetrable walls.

“Laurent –” He starts, voice desperate.

Laurent, unsurprisingly, cuts him off. His voice, like his face, is lifeless. “I need you to double check this form. Bring it up to me when you’re done.” He practically throws the file onto Jord’s desk; Jord swears he feels it rush past his face. It hits the monitor behind him with a resounding _thwack._

Huet winces. Jord feels like dying. Laurent storms off, booted feet stomping their way back upstairs.

“Shit,” Jord says, thumping his head onto his desk.

Huet pats his back in a conciliatory manner.

Jord makes his way upstairs half an hour later, when it’s impossible to delay going there any longer. He’s already gotten two more cups of coffee, emptied out the dishwasher in the kitchen and even taken out Alexon’s rubbish for him.

Laurent’s office door is open when Jord approaches. Laurent is behind his desk, reading a file, although his eyes aren’t moving.

“Laurent, I’m so sorry for –”

“Just leave the file and get out.”

Jord places it on the file holder on Laurent’s desk. He notices Laurent’s ring is sitting right next to it, unworn.

He tries again. “I really am sorry. It was wrong of me to –”

“I don’t _want _your apology,” Laurent snaps, lifting his head to glare at him.

Jord stiffens when he catches a good look at Laurent’s face. His eyes are red rimmed, and the tip of his nose is bright pink. It makes Jord realise, for the first time in a while, how young Laurent really is. He’s on the cusp of being twenty-two; barely a man, and Jord feels awful for being the reason why he’s crying right now.

Stricken with guilt, Jord chokes out a, “I’m an asshole, alright? Don’t pay attention to anything I was saying.”

Laurent inhales, sharp and short. His mouth is turned down in the corners. His voice is quiet when he speaks, almost childlike. It sounds so uncharacteristically self-conscious. “Is it really that hard to believe that I could be married?”

God, Jord honestly hates himself right now. He wishes he could erase the last forty minutes from the universe’s existence.

Laurent doesn’t give him a chance to answer. He’s lost inside his own head. “It’s alright,” he says. “I understand. My uncle used to tell me I was the most unlovable person he ever knew.”

“Then your uncle’s an asshole too,” Jord says, voice hard.

Laurent looks up at him then, face filled with shock, and maybe gratitude. But then he averts his eyes once more, mask slipped back on.

“Get out.”

**v.**

Jord arrives at the office on Monday morning later than usual; he’d had a dentist appointment on the other side of town. He may have made a few more errands on his way back as well.

When he steps out the elevator, he instantly knows something is wrong. The precinct is always filled with background noise; the whirring of the photocopier, the steady hiss of the coffee machine, and the low cadence of dull chatter. Today, there is a sombre, heaviness to the air that has Jord immediately tensing.

His fingers rest against the gun in his holster, eyes scanning the area for any danger. But, to his confusion, everyone seems to be still working, heads bent down in their cubicles. It’s just unnervingly quiet.

Jord heads to his desk, and that’s when he hears quiet sniffling.

Vannes, who sits three seats down from him, is at her desk, crying. Kashel has her arms wrapped around her, trying to soothe her. She’s crying too.

Concerned, Jord starts to make his way over to them to find out what’s wrong, but is stopped by Orlant, who is pale and stoic.

Now, real fear twists in Jord’s guts. Orlant shakes his head at Jord’s silent questioning. Orlant grabs him by the elbow, and drags him into the kitchen, which is unusually empty.

“What is it?” Jord asks.

Orlant swallows. “It’s Laurent.”

Jord’s mind blanks for three seconds before it kickstarts again. _God, _he thinks, _please, please don’t let him be dead. _

He’d spent the last two weeks practically grovelling for Laurent’s forgiveness. He’d brought him coffee every morning, cleaned his desk for him, and had even forwarded him a compilation of kitten videos.

It wasn’t until Jord brought Laurent a chocolate truffle cake with dark chocolate frosting that Laurent had finally given in.

“Okay, _fine. _I forgive you, Jesus.”

“Seriously? You’re not just saying that? Because I can tell and –”

“God, shut _up. _I’m not fond of repeating myself. Now leave me alone. This is due by noon.”

By the end of it, Laurent had almost been smiling.

Jord peers up at Orlant’s anxious face, his stomach dropping. “What happened?”

Orlant gestures for him to sit down, but Jord physically can’t. It’s like his body has been tightly wound with string.

“His uncle came in this morning,” Orlant says. “Went up to Herode’s office to let him know…Laurent’s in a coma. Apparently, he had a severe allergic reaction to something he ate at a restaurant. I don’t fucking know.”

It’s as though the ground beneath him has turned to jelly. Jord grabs onto the benchtop for support. “Fuck.”

Orlant shakes his head in sorrow. “I know. Vannes started crying immediately and she hasn’t stopped. It feels fucking surreal.”

_Surreal is a good word_, Jord thinks. Laurent in a coma – beautiful, spiteful, vulnerable Laurent – it’s nothing _but _surreal.

“Which hospital is he in?” Jord croaks. “Can we go visit? Send him some flowers or something?”

Orlant is shaking his head again. “Herode already asked. Only immediate family can visit. His uncle wouldn’t even say which hospital he’s in. Said it’d be a waste of time.”

“Shit,” Jord says, running a hand through his hair. His thoughts are running a mile a minute. “Wait –” he says, suddenly, eyes wide. “What about Laurent’s husband? Does he know? He’s all the way in Akielos, isn’t he? Has anyone told him?”

“Dude,” Orlant frowns. His stare is quizzical. “I thought we all agreed he isn’t real.”

Jord’s stomach twists with a foreign feeling. “What if he _is_ though? Don’t you think we should –”

“Excuse me, gentlemen.”

Jord whips around at the new voice. Standing in the doorway of the kitchen, a short, broad shouldered man peers at them. His hair is dark, peppered with grey, and his beard is neatly trimmed. It’s his eyes that Jord focuses on, though. They’re Laurent’s eyes.

“I couldn’t help but overhearing,” Laurent’s uncle steps all the way into the kitchen, hands clasped behind his back. He looks tired, worn down, like a man who has had the burden of not only being a part of bad news, but also sharing it. “You mentioned something about Laurent’s _husband_?”

Jord is taken aback by the hostility in his tone. He looks at the man closer and realises, no, he doesn’t have Laurent’s eyes at all. Even Laurent at his frostiest, has never had this look in his eyes – a feral kind of malevolence.

“No, sir,” Orlant says, when Jord remains silent. “Forgive us. Laurent has been playing a joke on the office recently, telling us he’s married.”

Laurent’s uncle hums. “I see.” He looks at Jord. “But you seem to think it _isn’t _a joke.”

“I…I don’t know, sir.” Jord says. “I mean – it could be real.”

Orlant glares at him. “Come on, Jord. Use your head. We _know _Laurent’s not married.”

Do they, though? Jord _is _using his head, but somehow, he can’t make the logical jump between point a to b.

He just doesn’t want to think anymore. All he wants to do is go see Laurent and shake him awake.

There’s a small sigh. Laurent’s uncle shakes his head, slowly, chastising. “Please accept my apologies on behalf of my nephew.” His mouth forms a sardonic smile. “You see, as a child, Laurent was quite lonely. He used to make elaborate stories about anything he could think of, just to get attention. It’s a shame that this habit of lying has made its way into his adult life, too.”

“Oh,” says Jord, momentarily stunned.

For the past few weeks, he’s been waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Laurent to slip up enough for Jord to point a finger at him and say, “Aha! I _knew _it, you liar!” They all have.

Except now, with Laurent’s uncle confirming that Laurent _is _a liar, something feels terribly wrong.

**vi.**

Jord has just come back from his lunch break when he sees a new email in his inbox, marked as urgent. It’s from Herode, and it’s succinct.

_My office NOW. _

Shit, Jord thinks, realising it was sent ten minutes ago; he hastily throws on his jacket and runs up the stairs.

It’s jarring to walk past the emptiness of Laurent’s office. It’s only been three days, but the precinct is still in shock.

He pointedly looks away from it as he reaches Herode’s door. To his surprise, the blinds are drawn tight. Jord can count on one hand the number of times Herode has shut the blinds. His stomach lurches with anticipation.

The door opens almost immediately when Jord knocks. It’s Lazar who opens it, face set in grim lines.

Orlant, Rochert, Huet, Enguerren are all huddled in the corner of Herode’s office, faces stoic. Herode himself is seated behind his desk, hands clasped in front of him, elbows on his desk. It almost seems like he’s praying.

There’s a tall, dark man on the other side of the office, dressed in a black suit. There’s a piece of wire in his ear, and Jord realises he’s a bodyguard.

Seated across Herode, with his back to Jord, is another tall, broad shouldered man with a head full of dark curls. He’s the only one in the room who doesn’t glance at Jord when he enters.

“Detective,” Herode says. “There’s been a situation. From here on out, I need your full cooperation and discretion.”

Jord nods, “Of course.” His voice is loud in the cramped space of the room.

Herode observes him for a moment longer, before he gestures to the man in front of him.

“Your Highness, I’d like you to introduce you to Detective Jord. He’s one of Arles’ best.”

Jord’s mind shutters over the words _Your Highness _as the man rises from his chair.

Damianos Vallis, Crown Prince of Akielos, is a familiar face. He’s always in the media, even here in Arles. His past is often a point of consternation in Vere; most of his teenage years and early adult life have been spent dealing with scandals. But he’s an interesting figure; a royal who abides by his own rules but is still proper and authoritative enough to gain respect worldwide. Jord thinks the last story he had read on the Prince was more than a year ago: it had been about his upcoming engagement with a Lady Jokaste, from the Noble House of Mellos.

To see him in the flesh is briefly destabilising. He’s much more handsome than how he appears in photos; his skin is clear, the colour of nutmeg, and his eyes are like small drops of coffee. When he smiles, it’s polite, but strained, and it dimples his left cheek.

“Detective,” Damianos says, shaking Jord’s hand. His voice is smooth, deep, pleasant to listen to. “This is Nikandros.” His Veretian is perfect; accent less. He gestures to the bodyguard, who has remained still throughout this whole thing.

Jord manages a weak nod. “It’s nice to meet you…Your Highness.” He’s not sure of what is the proper way to talk to royals – should he bow?

But Damianos is already sitting down. There aren’t any other seats in the office, so Jord remains standing, hands clasped behind his back, waiting for an explanation.

Thankfully, he doesn’t wait long. Herode sighs, looking morose.

“I’ll catch you up to speed, Jord.” The Captain’s voice is low, sombre. “We currently have reason to believe that Laurent has been kidnapped.”

“_Kidnapped_?” Jord’s voice is brittle with disbelief. “From – the hospital?” Why would anyone want to kidnap Laurent in a comatose state?

“No,” Herode says. His mouth pulls into a grimace. It ages his face. “It’s very possible that Laurent was never admitted into a hospital in the first place.”

“But his uncle –”

“His _uncle_,” Damianos suddenly says, voice tight with anger, “is a demonic psychopath. He’s evil to the core. The fact that you all let him walk in here and just _tell _you that Laurent is –”

Nikandros says something then, in quick Akielon. It makes Damianos grit his teeth and clench his fists in his lap.

Herode says, “You have every right to be angry at us, Your Highness. You’re right; we should have diligently assessed the validity of Mr Revere’s claims, instead of taking them at face value.”

Damianos doesn’t say anything, but his nod is curt.

“Why would Laurent’s uncle lie about Laurent being in hospital?” Jord asks. When he meets Orlant’s eyes across the room, it comes to him. “You don’t think that…his own uncle would kidnap him?”

Damianos’ laugh is hollow. “Like I said, he’s evil.”

“He’s our prime suspect at the moment,” Herode nods. “We’ve already traced the location of Laurent’s last call. It was made at eight in the evening on Sunday.”

“That was to me,” Damianos says. He swallows a little. “I’ve been trying to get in touch for the last three days – but his phone won’t even ring.” Despite the rigidness of his posture, Jord notices the real, unbridled fear in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Jord says, before he can think not to. “I still don’t understand. How do you even know Laurent? Er, Your Highness.”

Damianos looks at him, then. His face is pained. “He’s my husband.”

Jord’s eyes widen. The revelation surprises everyone else too, except for Herode and Nikandros.

“Holy fucking shit,” says Jord.

*

Laurent’s disappearance becomes top priority. Jord is the primary on the case, however, Damianos employs a whole hoard of Akielon secret service members, who are all burly and intimidating in shape, to speed up the investigation.

It doesn’t take long to discover a motive; about a month ago, there had been some unusual activity in Laurent’s bank account. A third party had accessed it but hadn’t touched the money in the account. And there was a lot of money in Laurent’s account; Jord’s eyebrows had disappeared into his hairline for a full five seconds when he had read the amount. (He had also, guiltily, wondered if there was another member of royal family who was single and gay).

He instructs Damianos’ men to trace the IP address of this third party – (most of them look offended at being bossed around by a Veretian detective) – and then asks Orlant and Huet to go door knocking around Laurent’s neighbourhood, in case someone saw something even remotely suspicious.

When Jord leaves Herode’s office after giving him an update on the case, he notices the light in Laurent’s office is on.

Prince Damianos is seated in Laurent’s chair, expression clouded. He’s playing with the gold wedding ring Laurent had left on his desk, fingers tracing the rim of it in continuous loops. Its twin is on Damianos’ ring finger, and it keeps catching the light.

Jord deliberates on approaching him. In the end, he does; over the last decade he’s spent as a detective, he’s witnessed plenty of anxious partners and family members. Often, they do find some comfort in talking to the detective on the case. It can help ease some of their worries.

“Your Highness,” Jord says quietly and Damianos looks up at him, unstartled, eyes dark. “Is there anything I can get you? A cup of coffee or some food?”

“No, thank you,” Damianos says. “I don’t think I could stomach anything right now.”

Damianos looks as though he is one moment away from losing his composure, so Jord says, neutrally, softly, “Did you and Laurent really meet at a museum?”

Damianos eyes widen in surprise. Then, his mouth quirks a little; not quite a smile, but the yearning in it is difficult to miss. “Yes,” he says quietly. “We did. At the contemporary art one in Marlas. I was trying to avoid paparazzi, so I slipped inside – and he was up by the Gericault exhibition. I just…I couldn’t look away when I saw him. I knew if I didn’t go up to him, I’d regret it for the rest of my life.”

Jord keeps his smile encouraging. It’s almost dreamlike to think of Laurent being approached by an actual Prince. “And then you two got married.”

“Yes,” Damianos says. His smile is still soft, longing. “I proposed six months later. He wanted a proper, springtime wedding. But my family didn’t approve of our relationship and I was so worried they’d try to stop me from seeing him, I convinced him to elope. I didn’t even tell anyone I was married until three months later.”

It all makes so much sense now, Jord thinks. Laurent’s hesitancy to reveal anything about his husband or marriage; there must have been immense pressure from the royal family to keep it all hush hush, in order to avoid a scandal.

“That’s why he doesn’t wear his ring,” Jord muses, out loud.

Damianos’ face instantly falls. It crumples into something incredibly tragic. “No,” he says. This time his voice is strangled. “Laurent doesn’t wear his ring because he’s somehow convinced himself that he’s not good enough for me. As if he isn’t the best thing that’s ever happened to me. As if I don’t love every single thing about him. As if –” Damianos’ breaks off, eyes squeezed shut.

It feels voyeuristic to witness somebody being consumed by their grief. Before Jord can say something mildly comforting, there are pounding footsteps pounding up the stairs, urgent and loud.

Damianos is already standing. Jord turns to the door to see Rochert approach, red faced and panting.

“We know where they are.”

*

Revere’s phone was last used fifteen minutes ago, at this address. The house is a nice, expensive, modern one, in an idyllic suburb on the outskirts of Arles city.

Jord has men surrounding the entire perimeter of the area. After a brief consultation with Nikandros, Jord decides the best tactical approach is to storm in; Revere is known to house several weapons and they’re not in a position to bargain Laurent’s life.

Jord, Nikandros, Lazar, Orlant and Prince Damianos are the ones in first line. Nikandros and Jord had vehemently protested against the Prince’s involvement. Despite his status, Damianos is still technically a civilian, but Damianos had gotten into a yelling match with all his men – and Jord – and had even threatened to involve the King. At that point, Nikandros and Jord had relented, with Nikandros looking like he was ten seconds away from committing treason.

“Get down!” Orlant yells as he kicks down the door. Everyone is behind him, guns drawn. Nikandros’ priority seems to be guarding Damianos – which, good call. Jord doesn’t need a royal hurt under his watch.

The hallway is empty; they turn left into the kitchen. The oven light is on. Revere is by the sink, wearing an old shirt and faded jeans. He doesn’t seem bothered by the fully armed men intruding his home.

“Gentlemen,” he greets. It’s polite.

“Get down.” Orlant snaps again. “Hands behind your head.”

Revere falls to his knees, a slow, sick smile creeping on his face. Jord grips his gun tighter.

Orlant and Lazar step forward; while Lazar frisks him, Orlant pulls his hands down, behind his back. As he opens his mouth to read him his rights, Revere’s eyes – so cold, so lifeless – fall on the Prince, whose chest is rising rapidly.

It’s obvious Revere recognises him. His eyes go over Damianos’ body, to the ring on his left hand.

“Ah,” he says, his smile cutting. “So, it’s true then. I take it you are the man who has won Laurent’s heart?”

“Don’t say his name,” Damianos hisses. His entire body is tightly strung, fists clenched at his sides. Jord has never seen anyone this angry before.

Nikandros’ eyes flick from Revere to Damianos. He murmurs something to Damianos in Akielon.

Jord thinks he can understand from context. “Stay calm,” he says to Damianos.

Cuffed, Revere’s face doesn’t lose his smile. There’s no remorse on his face. It’s sickening to look at him.

“I’m surprised a man of your stature fell for him.” Revere says. His tone is still pleasant, his body easy, as though he isn’t shackled on his kitchen floor. “Tell me, what was it about my nephew that enchanted you so? He’s not even that good of a fuck.”

It takes a split second for the words register. When they do, Jord has to stop himself from physically reacting. The back of his neck prickles.

Damianos has no problem reacting. He lunges for Revere, an animalistic noise rumbling from his chest. It happens so fast. Nikandros shouts a warning. In his attack, Damianos knocks both Orlant and Lazar down.

Pinned underneath the weight of Damianos, who is much larger and stronger than him, Revere, for the first time, looks terrified. Damianos’ face is reddening in anger, his teeth bared in a snarl as he delivers the first, second then third punch.

Nikandros and Jord try to stop him; Damianos’ strength is unparalleled. Jord, winded, is knocked to the ground, his gun clattering from his hand. Nikandros is shouting at him to stop. Even as Orlant and Lazar try to grab him, Damianos keeps going.

Jord’s mind is racing. His hand reaches for his gun again. At first, he thinks of shooting a warning shot – but somewhere inside, he knows that won’t stop the Prince.

So, he says loudly, calmly, “Your Highness. We still need to find Laurent.”

It works. Damianos stops. Panting over Revere’s body, his face twists with disgust. Then, he pushes himself off, eyes stormy, fists red.

Revere lies on the floor, face painted red, chest heaving shallowly. His eyes are wide with terror.

_Good, _Jord thinks.

He tells Orlant and Lazar to bring Revere outside.

As Orlant passes him, Jord says in a quiet voice, “Tell them that he tried to attack us first.”

“I already was,” says Orlant, face grim.

Nikandros, tense and sweating, looks at him. Damianos is too, the line of his jaw tight. Jord motions for them to follow him. Guns drawn once more, they make their way down the hallway.

Only one door is shut; it’s bolted outside with four different locks.

Jord nods at Nikandros, who kicks it down. It comes down after the sixth kick, with a satisfying thud.

The room is tiny; there’s a small, infant sized cot pushed up against the wall. It’s dark; there are no windows, and it smells damp.

Laurent is standing in the middle of the room, gripping his elbows. He’s wearing a thin shirt and the slacks he wears to work. He’s pallid, lips white with dehydration, his hair lank and greasy. There’s a large bruise along the right side of his face, kaleidoscopic in colouring. Under his jaw, it’s coloured the darkest; from here, it almost seems black.

Laurent’s eyes are blown wide when he sees them. “_Damen,_” he breathes, voice scratchy with misuse.

Damianos is rushing forward. In a direct parallel to the events that transpired five minutes ago, he holds Laurent with a gentleness that is hard to watch.

Laurent shakes in his arms. Damen’s hug is firm, grounding.

“You’re safe. I’m here now.”

Laurent breaks down.

*

Herode is eager to wrap the case up; Jord has never seen the Captain so anxious. It’s because it involves Laurent, he knows. Herode doesn’t want Laurent to suffer a long, arduous trial process. The quicker they can file the case reports, the quicker Revere can be sentenced.

“Laurent needs to provide his statement. Jord – can you go get him, please?” Herode’s tone is brisk. Jord has been watching him type a longwinded email for the last ten minutes.

Jord heads down the infirmary, where Laurent and Damianos currently are.

Damianos has called in his own team of doctors, but they won’t be here for a few hours. Paschal is knowledgeable on how to treat victims of stress and trauma though; no one is going to deny anything but the best treatment for Laurent.

The door to the infirmary is open. Jord can see Laurent, huddled in a blanket, seated on Damianos’ lap. Damianos’ ring glints in the light as he pushes Laurent’s hair off his face.

“– told you, it looks worse than it is,” Laurent is saying. “I honestly can’t feel it.”

Damianos sighs. His face is creased in worry. “Tell me what you need, Laurent. I’ll give it to you.”

Laurent’s voice shakes a little as he says, “Just hold me, please.”

Damianos’ arms wrap around him. His kisses Laurent’s temple. “I can do that, sweetheart.”

Jord turns back around. Herode can wait a few more minutes.

* * *

**bonus:**

The sun is pleasantly warm against Jord’s face as he sits by the bar on the lawn, the music in the background a soothing lull.

Damianos and Laurent are in the middle of the lawn, dancing together in the greenest grass he has ever seen. Their suits are impeccable; made of dark, rich fabrics that bring out the colour of Damianos’ hair and the blue of Laurent’s eyes.

As he watches, Damianos leans forward to kiss Laurent, open mouthed and with tongue; the same way he had kissed Laurent in the gazebo, after they had read their vows. Laurent’s arms fling around Damianos’ neck, kissing him deeper. The matching white flowers tucked behind their ears touch as they shift closer. Damianos’ gold laurel crown shifts a little, but Laurent’s stunning circlet seems to be firmly locked in place.

By the end of the kiss, Laurent is openly laughing into Damianos’ mouth.

“This is the most romantic wedding I’ve ever attended,” Vannes sighs next to him, a little giddy. She’s definitely drunk; her smile is dopey.

Jord nods. “It’s a proper, springtime wedding.”

Lazar says, “I can’t believe Laurent’s going to be a fucking _king_. Holy fuck, that’s insane.”

Orlant scoffs into his drink. “I just can’t believe Laurent is fucking married. Who would’ve thought, huh?”

Jord smiles, shrugging his shoulders. “He did tell us.”

**Author's Note:**

> the ending turned out more dramatic than i expected but oh well. i wrote this in like a day and a half after rewatching b99 for the tenth time (not an exaggeration) and had a blast. 
> 
> thank you so much for reading!!! if you want, leave a comment and some kudos <3
> 
> im on tumblr [@goldencuffs](https://goldencuffs.tumblr.com/) come say hi!!
> 
> also - are you guys more interested in fake dating aus or arranged marriage aus?? im on the fence over what my next fic should be. lmk!!


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